Always
by Sooner Or Later
Summary: Harry's war is upon him. Draco's already gone. Why does death always seem a last hope when you've nothing else to loose? DMHP, Gore, Slash
1. Self Inflicted Wounds

Always

**Warnings: Violence, Gore, Implied Slash, DM/HP pairing. If you can't stand lots of blood and are a prick about two guys in love, don't read further.**

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own Harry Potter or "Always", by Blink-182. Though, I wish I did. I'd be rich! Anywho. Don't sue me. You'd get a pencil. Because I'm that poor.**

**Yeah. This is pretty much my first Fan Fiction. Enjoy 3;**

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_I've been here, before,_

_a few times. ._

_And I'm quite aware_

_we're dying. ._

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Panting.

Short, gasping breaths, reverberating throughout the room, shuddering off the walls and reconnecting with his ears, making him hear his own sounds of pain.

It hurt. It hurt so _fucking bad_ that he desperately wanted to die, even if it was in the dungeon of his enemy, alone and with no one that he really loved. Not his boyfriend—no one.

In that respect, his fears were coming true. Almost all his life he'd been alone, and now in death, he was alone once more. He was absolutely terrified, though this did not show. Tears refused to come long ago, and he would not have let them come if they did decide to.

The moans of pain were his only friend. That and the soft splatter of crimson liquid seeming to drip from his every pore, landing on the stone floor and creating a sort of music with his haggard breath. They reminded him how close he was, taught him what the sounds of dying slowly from blood loss actually sounded like. He'd only heard anyone die silently from a quick, simple spell, except that one time. . .where she screamed.

He could feel his body sinking against the cold stone walls. He couldn't actually feel the stone, the roughness against his already painful wounds and bare skin, but he knew, with an acute awareness, how it'd feel had he been able to sense such things through the blinding pain coursing through his nerves. The senses that he was so used to relying on were escaping him. Even his magic left his body. Not that he'd been able to do anything with it, anyway. His wand had been taken away, snapped into bits, and then he was tortured—mutilated.

Even the pain of the torture couldn't compare to the pain he was feeling just from the after effects. It was both mental and physical—he had not planned to die like this. No. He had planned to die in victory—if he died at all—, his friends surrounding him and crying in happiness and sadness, for not only his body, but for their freedom. But this? He didn't want to die so helpless, so alone. However, he was dying and there was nothing to do about it. He didn't even dare hang on, for the pain was so bad that he just wanted everything to disappear, to fade away and just leave him. An odd thing, it was, to wish so desperately to die, and have the one thing you want the most totally evade you, and slowly torture you more by unseen hands.

His wish was granted sooner or later, and he thanked whatever God was up there. It was still slow, though. First, his hearing began to fade. The pants and the slow dripping of blood turned into a distant echo and once they were gone he realized just how much he'd been relying on the lethargic beat that they created. It was an aching silence that followed, filled with searing anguish and his mind turning to complete mush; thoughts swirling in a haphazard manner, not allowing him to grasp any one of them, let alone dig through them to remember the happier times in his life, if only to forget the pain. For him, no comfort was allowed.

Hands fumbled, and he was surprised he could even move them. They felt the gushing blood; it was as if he had cuts everywhere. One, a deep one, a knife wound, stabbed through his stomach, mercifully missing his lungs so he didn't gurgle when he tried to breathe. Puncturing his lungs would have been too easy, though. Too quick. They didn't want to give him any such luxuries, even if it was excruciatingly painful. Lower, two identical cuts ran down his sides, cutting into the oblique muscles and trailing down over his hip bones. He remembered the pain when that sensitive area was cut. Even that wasn't as bad as what he was feeling now. .

The hands traced the wounds lower, over cuts down his thighs, ignoring the sore protesting in the over-stretched muscles of his arms and the burning around his wrists from where they'd tied him. Thankfully the position hadn't broken his arms. . Another stab wound was in his calf—no wonder he'd had such a hard time walking. .

His body straightened and he let out a cry of pain, filled with agony though he couldn't hear it. It was odd, living your life, taking advantage of your hearing, and at death. .he didn't even know if he really screamed. It was as if his mouth just opened and nothing came out but blood, gurgling down the corners of his lips and ruining his almost-tanned complexion with crimson. He felt his mouth close and wondered why it had opened in the first place. His mind was starting to go slowly, too, he knew.

Those eyes, the ones that many in his boyhood had said were so brilliant; the ones that adamantly stared into his boyfriend's gaze as they made love; the ones that were adored—they opened and he found vision to be a white blur. He could definitely make out the chains on the other side of the room, the ones which he was thankful he wasn't in. They were beyond painful—it was in those chains that he'd lost track of the days. There were no windows in the room, he remembered, even though he couldn't see well enough to confirm that distant thought.

Suddenly, the swirling in his head dimmed to a roar, and one phrase that he'd learned not to fear rang out in his mind: _I'm going to die!_ He forgot all about his supposed "learning" and became frightened, like a panicked animal knowing he was being hunted. Of course, he'd known about the pain, about all the blood, about the numbness settling in his mind, about the pants of death, but he wasn't prepared for the rush of sickness and absolute longing not to be in the position he was in now. He was too young! He didn't want to die! He had so many things he wanted to do, so. .so many things. .

His thoughts dimmed. The loss of blood made him turn cold, where as it had been a warm feeling mixed in with all that pain before. Now that he was freezing from the inside out, he fell into even more agony. It was as if his flesh was being melted from his bones at that very coldness. . Another scream that he couldn't hear and wasn't sure if he even uttered passed his lips and his eyes jerked open once more, turning to the bars of his chamber. In all the light, in all the mussed grey of the rock and darkness blending all together, he could briefly make out a mop of short blonde hair and a young body. .

In his last instances, his last thoughts were that his boyfriend had turned him in. It was his boyfriend that had done this to him—had ultimately killed him. It was all his boyfriends fault, and while he knew this before, he couldn't help but feel a dreadful hate flash through his body, banishing the pain for him to relish in a realm of numbness, if it wasn't for the abhorrence that was running out of his veins like the blood he spilt.

The funny thing was he hadn't even seen it coming. His boyfriend was perfect. Everything that he could ever wish for. .and then it happened. Everything changed and he hated it all. He hated the cruel spin of fate and most of all he hated the blonde on the other side of the bars. His boyfriend should have been in his place, for his treacherous deeds! But no. It was his fate. His destiny to die. That didn't mean he had to accept it. .He felt his mouth open, to say something, but a choked gurgle passed his throat, spilling out blood. He gulped down his last breath mingling with his body's liquids and closed his eyes, accepting death with one last curse: that the blonde would die as slowly and painfully as he, himself, had. .

There, in that dark dungeon, Draco Malfoy watching on, the savior of the Wizarding World died, slowly and painfully, and the blonde had at least the mercy to shed one streaming silver tear down his golden cheek. And then, impatient, long fingers brushed the moisture off of his cheek and he schooled his expression into that of clear hate for his "ex-boyfriend" whom he'd loved, beyond anything. But, like many others, he couldn't resist the pull of power, even through such an ordeal as handing his love to death. With that tear gone, he turned on his heel and marched from the dungeons, up to tell his master that the foe was dead. .

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**Har. A short little drabble of nothingness. I truly do like Harry! But I was in the mood for something a little. .darker. And so, this came about. Heh. Isn't it fun? The song is Always, by Blink-182. I thought it was fitting.**

**Yay four pages! This WILL be an ongoing story, so please review?**


	2. Penside Confessional

**The second chapter of "Always"! Huzza.** _

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I play dead, _

_to hide my heart_

_until the world gone dark fades away._

_I cry,_

_like God cries the rain,_

_and I'm just one step away from the end of today. ._

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To ThoseBurning BirthsNot Dead:

Love and hate.

Mother always told me, when I was a child, that they were the same. With hate came a deep-seeded love that was stronger than the word, stronger than the world, stronger than the person who shared it. But, she said, to get that strong love, you had to hate, to kill.

Mother always warned me to never love.

She had said, when I was ten—just barely able to understand—that Father had loved her, once. Or so they thought. He hadn't realized his true feelings, and she was in so deep that she never caught on, either. Over time, the love morphed into its darker side: complete loathing.

"Just like a person," she spoke wisely, "love has different personalities."

I understand now. To love, you have to be insane. To love, you must be bipolar, because love in itself is insane and bipolar and totally and completely unpredictable. Just like a person, love can be nice and sweet or damnable and cruel. Thus, there is no love. It doesn't exist, if it is also mixed with 'hate', because love meant good, caring thoughts. Hate was disgust and you wanted to _kill_ the soul of the person whom the word was associated with.

Mother always told me that the line between love and hate was blurred, and that was why father treated me like he did.

No, Father never hit me, if that's what you're getting at. He'd never touch me. Merely, he was indifferent—love's true opposite—because of his love for me.

"Now, that doesn't make sense," I told my mother at that young age, and she just smiled and told me that it would one day.

It does, now. Love could fuel pride, a double-edge sword, an emotion that could make you do the cruelest of things because of your love.

I read this Muggle story once, you know. It was two years ago, before my nineteenth birthday. I was wandering around Muggle London and stopped into a library, just to explore. One of the books I picked up to flick through was an anthology of short stories, and the one that I stopped to read was called the Scarlet Ibis.

The story. .will be one I remember clearly until I die, I believe. It was the absolute summary and example of everything my Mother had ever been trying to tell me, and it stated things in perfect ways. A boy. .a six year old boy, growing older, was the main character. He had a brother. Now, I've never had a sibling, but the same pride that the boy inflicted onto his disabled younger brother could also be translated to my situation; to me and my father.

See, the boy's pride killed his little brother. The latter worked hard, trying to please the former, but the boy pushed him harder and harder, and when he failed. .the boy pushed him away when his brother needed him most. In the end, the little brother died.

I haven't gone into a Muggle Library again. I guess I'm scared, because of the truths the book spoke. It was what my Mother said to me so long ago:

Love spurs indifference because of human pride.

And indifference is love's opposite. Love's bad. Indifference is hate, loathing because of flaws. .

Every human has flaws, and thus we're allowed to love, hate, feel emotion. And the circle continues, because those emotions flaw us even more. Even indifference, which my father had always molded me to be and show, created flaws and weakness. Indifference was just the fool trying to hide his blemish.

Yes, I'm foolish. It's always been said: "Only fools fall in love."

Dear Merlin, with all my mother's warnings, with all the pain and suffering I've seen because of love. .I've fallen in love myself.

Yes, the Great Ice Prince Draco Malfoy has fallen in love. Head-over-heels, into a hole I can't ever get out of.

With the one person I hate the most.

Harry Potter.

I know. You all must be thinking me crazy by now, but that's just it. I am crazy and I am in love. And what about me hating the boy? Didn't I just say that love is hate?

When I first met him, I convinced myself I loved him, just because of who he was. Harry Potter. My savior. The one that would break a mold I'd long suffered in. But he was also one to kill my mother, my father, my friends, my world. That was the hate. However, the love was stronger, when I was a child. So strong.

And then he refused my hand on the train.

The hate became greater. He was the fuel for my fires. My irritation, my fantasies. He was the only one that I couldn't have, and the only one who could get to me, to reach me more than anyone. I suppose you could pin it as lust, as a strong determination to dominate the only thing that really stood as an obstacle in my life. .But that love I convinced myself I had for him still lingered under all my hate, and that only made the fire burn brighter.

I was soon consumed. Totally and completely eaten up, devoured by the flame that wanted to kill him, too. I wanted to break his soul, to kill it, so I could be in peace. It was the only way I could allow myself to completely and fully love him—he had to be dead. He had to be.

Through Hogwarts, I was obsessed with the idea to kill him, physically or mentally. I liked a challenge. I was spiteful, hateful, pushing him and pushing him but he never broke. He never died, at the end. He was stronger than I, for with my father, I had died long ago. The difference? My father disliked me and was indifferent no matter what, while I was still convinced I loved Harry with all my life.

And maybe I did. I was still a child, still immature and foolish, and while I still am now, I see the world from higher points. One never stops being a fool—they merely become more and more of a fool until they seem wise.

After Harry lived, I became indifferent. That was around fifth year. I had burning pride in the boy, that he had survived and I hadn't. He was stronger and I respected that, and I loved him even more for it. The indifference, however, began to make him wither. I could feel the burning looks of longing on my back and I wondered, _Why? _

It was then that I realized that hate, especially, was addictive. When I stopped insulting Harry, when I stopped hating him and cut him off completely, it made him long for the conversation, even if it was contemptible. It made him want and _lust_ after that hate I had been feeding him for so long, like a drug, and I knew that Harry loved me, too. If he needed my hate, thrived off my hate that my love was fueling, then he survived off my love. .he wanted my love.

Everything happened with a snowball effect after that.

One day, we were fighting in the halls, at each other's throats, wands at the ready.

The snowball rolled, gaining speed and more snow.

Another day, we again were in the halls, closer now, spitting venomous words.

Faster. Bigger. More snow.

A week later, still in the halls, though Harry was in my arms. Our words weren't so venomous.

More, more, more snow. Gigantic.

A month after, in the Room of Requirement, panting on the bed, sex filling the air. Our first time. Together, that is.

I whispered, "I hate you."

Harry just smiled knowingly and said, "I love you."

Crash.

Break.

Gone.

We were together, after that day in our sixth year. Everyone knew, too. I suspected Harry's friends didn't much like it, and Pansy certainly didn't like it. But me and Harry?

We didn't care what they thought.

Indifference makes you do odd things. .

The end of sixth year was ominous. It was obvious that the war was upon us and that many people would be dying. When? No one knew.

That summer, Father made me get the Mark. He whispered that he knew I'd take the mark, because I was his boy—his heir, his pride. He never once said that he loved me, like Harry did. He never once said that I was doing good, being brave. It was only you better, or else.

Why I still took the Mark I don't know.

I think part of me, the part that really, truly cares and treasures Harry, wanted to see him again. That part wanted to hold him, make love to him, tell him that he's my everything and that I'd never let go, as I had told him so many times before. I didn't want them to kill me upon my refusal and never again allow me to have Harry. Hate makes you selfish. Love does, too.

Maybe I should have just pushed it all aside when Master came to me and ordered for me to bring him Harry. "When the time was right," he had said. When the time was right. At that point, I should have said good-bye to my love and just killed myself. Then he wouldn't have to suffer by my hand.

But no. I was the spoilt, selfish brat who'd finally realized love and didn't want to let go of it. A little part of my love started to turn back into hate, because I knew the boy would leave me soon. I didn't want him to go. He was mine—mine alone.

Hate makes you do odd things. .

Love does, too.

It turned out that "the right time" wasn't until two years after I'd gotten the mark. I was eighteen when Master called on me and told me to bring him Harry.

I didn't want to, but I had to. The two years I had spent with Harry were wonderful, and I'd gotten so attached. I loved Harry more than anything in the world—he was my world, in fact. He was my friend, my family, my world. He was my hate, my love, my best moments and my worst moments. And I was his.

Harry never saw the mark. It was always long shirts or gloves and during sex? Well, he never noticed, unfortunately. Maybe if he noticed he would have run far, far away and never have looked at me again. I'd be able to live with myself now, after. .

You see, when Master called I was still the selfish boy I'd always been. Somehow my logic told me that if I handed my love over to his enemy, then at least no one else would have him. And so, I handed Harry over.

I can still remember what he said when he realized my betrayal,

"I hate you, Malfoy."

I could only say, "I love you, Harry."

And he was gone.

It would be months until I saw him again.

When I did, he was down in the dungeons, hanging by his arms in shackles. He was pale—or at least not as tanned as he had been when I handed him over. He looked horrible.

For the longest time I clenched the bars in my hands, trying to press myself through those thin spaces to comfort the boy on the other side. For the longest time he was sleeping, and even though he was dirty and had slight cuts and scabs, and a few burns here or there, he still looked so peaceful and angelic. And then he woke up, glared at me, his gaze holding hate and love and fury in it. I could only tell him that I loved him.

Never once did I say I was sorry.

Because I wasn't.

After that day, I only saw him one other time.

I headed down to the dungeons. Master had just gotten through with him. I had no idea. .

I got there late. He'd already been in his cell for quite a while. Screams of pain drew me to him faster, and once more my hands clenched at the bars and my body felt as if it tried to press itself through the thin spaces in between. For what seemed like forever I stood there, listening to him gasp and hurt. For what seemed like forever his eyes opened and he glared at me. It took him what seemed like forever for him to die.

A tear ran down my cheek, but I still didn't say I was sorry. I brushed that tear off and went to Master, to tell him Harry Potter was dead.

Since that day, four years ago, I've been looking to see where you have been hiding. I knew you still existed, and that you didn't all die out.

You may be confused, now. Why would I, Draco Malfoy, be looking for the Order?

To tell the truth, I wanted to tell you all that it was I who turned Harry into Voldemort—he did not go willingly, but I think you may already know that.

Hate makes you do strange things.

Love does, too.

That was why I killed him.

I loved Harry Potter.

And, Merlin, if you hate me as much as I'm sure you do, please do this for me, and for me.

Love makes you do strange things.

Hate does, too.

That's why Harry, in that gaze before he died, wished that I die, too.

Harry Potter loved me.

Please.

Find me.

Burn me.

Torture me.

Leave me to die.

Leave me to love, hate, and be with him. .

If you hate me, you'll do this.

If you love him, you'll do this.

Please.

--Draco Malfoy

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**Third chapter will be up soon. Review and i'll write faster and better, yah? Haha. Luvs.**


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